


For Two

by aftereighteen



Category: Swimming RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-12-03 11:21:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/697715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aftereighteen/pseuds/aftereighteen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt fill for: "five dinners together and one breakfast".</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Two

**Author's Note:**

> fill for [this](http://hadrons-collide.livejournal.com/13514.html?thread=212426&#t212426) prompt at 2012 Olympic ficathon part 2 courtesy of redjacket. The prompt was, "five dinners together and one breakfast".

As always, Michael’s got his head down and his earbuds in, so he doesn’t hear the approaching footsteps. His mom’s forever telling him off, repeating that it’s not good for his neck and that he should be more sociable. But Michael’s sure his neck is just fine – there are enough people scrutinising that and every other part of him on an hourly basis that he’d surely know if something were wrong – and he doesn’t want to be sociable, he wants to win. This fact is painfully obvious to all but one person on the planet.

“Man, I could eat a horse.”

Michael jumps as a tray thumps down next to him and a body swings into the seat beside him. A hand ruffles his hair far too hard and plucks his headphone out, shoving it into the person’s own ear.

Ryan starts nodding along to the beat, allowing his body to join in and rock with the steady rhythm of the rap as he digs in to his food. “Good choice, Mikey,” he mumbles around his food, nodding his approval.

Michael’s not at all comfortable with his teammate being so far into his space, but his mouth is starting to water at the smell of Ryan’s food. He risks a glance to the other man’s plate and stares at it in slight shock: Ryan’s loaded down with fast food and junk. Michael can’t seem to find the words that he knows he should to talk Ryan out of consuming a pile of crap in the middle of an Olympic Games.

“Dude, don’t even,” Ryan mumbles as he starts shovelling food into his mouth. “I know what you’re thinking. But, uh, as if we don’t burn enough off in the water every day.”

Michael doesn’t say a word, just turns back to his own plate of steamed rice and vegetables and chicken and continues to eat.

“I’m pretty disappointed to be honest,” Ryan continues his monologue, still eating at a speed similar to that at which he swims. “It’s Friday. No matter where in the world I am, no matter what’s going on, Friday always means pizza and wings. Who do I see about complaining that the Village doesn’t have wings available?”

Michael shrugs, trying to disengage himself from the swimmer next to him, attempting to shrink down in his seat, finish his food and escape. But now that he’s let Ryan into his consciousness, he’s struggling to refocus, finding it impossible to drag himself away. It’s as if Ryan has this magnet inside him which is connected to one in Michael, pulling him in.

Michael knows that this is why having friends is a bad idea. They’re a distraction, and this one in particular is chaotic and noisy and more potent than anything he’s ever known outside of his family. It doesn’t just scare him in terms of how it might affect his swimming, it frightens him to think that he might just have fallen for this person. And part of the problem is that Ryan isn’t a goal like his others – there’s no weight programme or practice set or training regime he can undertake to ensure that he achieves his goal of being intimate with Ryan. This is the first time that Michael has been unable to figure out how to get what he wants, and there’s also nobody he’s willing to tell who can help him work it out.

So Michael’s chosen to go with avoidance. Box that shit off and throw away the key. Get his head down and focus on things he can control, things he can achieve. Times, stroke counts, breathing underwater, medals. Definitely not falling in love or lust or anything else.

But Ryan’s right there. Michael can smell him and feel his presence and it’s just as intoxicating as winning. And a little voice reminds him that it might last longer than his career, that this could be something bigger than that. But then another voice pipes up, points out how beautiful Ryan is, how he looks like he were chiselled from the purest block of male flesh that anyone could imagine, how he’s not just out of Michael’s league but in a different universe.

Michael closes his eyes, sets his jaw and thinks hard about Bob in a Speedo. He’s doing fine – well, he’s not sure he’ll ever get it up again, but that was kinda the point – until the smell of warm grease wafts under his nose, edging closer to his lips.

“One bite won’t hurt,” Ryan encourages. “Go on, Mike. Have some.”

And Michael opens his eyes, sees Ryan pushing some pizza towards his mouth and he really wishes he could have something more than pizza. He doesn’t normally give up, but as Ryan’s eyes sparkle at him from two feet away, holding out the pizza and smiling at him with nothing but hope and – Michael’s startled to realise it – affection, he knows he’s beaten.

He swipes his lower lip with his tongue, eyes on Ryan, who he thinks is watching his tongue now rather than holding his gaze. Michael swallows, checking that he still can before making an attempt at the pizza. He finally opens his mouth, taking a bite from the tip, still watching Ryan and chews slowly.

“See?” Ryan asks a little thickly. “Totally good for you.”

Michael swallows and nods. “So bad, but so good,” he agrees.

*

If Michael stopped to think about the complete change in how people behave around him, he’d be overwhelmed. And probably hurt. He’s got eight Olympic gold medals on red ribbons and everyone wants a piece of him these days. Most people still think he’s weird, either because of his body or his attitude to others, but it doesn’t matter. Because he’s the best swimmer in the world. He still isn’t what a lot of people would call attractive, but he’s good at sport, which immediately gives him cool points.

There are parties being thrown in his honour left and right, and this is just the beginning. Six years without a day off had paid off last time and the work he’s put in since has cemented his success, so it’s time to bask in that just for a little while. Michael doesn’t know what he’ll do next, doesn’t know if he’ll get in a pool again. But he’s okay with that. The free drinks are rolling in, pens are constantly being thrust in his face for autographs and he’s lost count of the amount of times that he’s mentally cursed the inventor of phones with cameras.

Almost everyone around him is smiling and laughing and slapping him on the back, happy to be there. It’s a shame that the one person who isn’t jumping for joy and rolling around in it with him is the person he wants by his side the most. As the team had piled into a restaurant, Ryan had slunk at the back, looking very much like he couldn’t be less interested in a party. 

Ryan’s demeanour would normally be causing the group alarm, but Michael’s guess is that they’re assuming he’s still feeling off-colour and not in the mood to join in the celebrations. Michael doesn’t think that Ryan has embarrassed himself in the pool, but he’s sure that Ryan disagrees.

As the food starts to arrive, Michael glances down the long table, catching sight of Ryan texting distractedly, not speaking to the noisy teammates surrounding him. For the first time, Michael knows what he must look like pre and mid-meet: standoffish, disinterested and downright rude. It’s alien seeing that in Ryan’s body, and Michael has to fight against a feeling in his chest to pull his gaze away and focus instead on enjoying the dinner.

When the first two courses are done, some people drift off to the bathroom or another table where they’ve spotted people they recognise. Others get up and move around the table, re-locating themselves to mix further within the large group. As soon as there’s a free seat next to Ryan, Michael bolts for it, not caring about his lack of subtlety – he’s had more than a few drinks and is feeling bold.

Ryan doesn’t look up when Michael drops into the seat next to him. Michael reaches out and rubs a hand across Ryan’s shoulder, squeezing to get his attention. “Hey Doggy,” he says, using his nickname for Ryan to try and ease the tension.

Ryan’s head snaps up and he nods at Michael. “Hi,” he says, before looking straight back down at his phone.

Michael frowns. This is worse than he thought. He still has his hand on Ryan’s shoulder and he looks down at his skin on Ryan’s, suddenly overcome by the urge to stroke his thumb up Ryan’s neck, pull the other man close and kiss him with everything he has. He allows his thumb to do what it wants, but manages to restrain himself from the kissing part.

Ryan feels Michael move and jerks round to look at him again, making eye contact briefly before twisting to look at Michael’s arm stretching out between their bodies. “The fuck?” he mutters, pulling back out of Michael’s grasp.

Michael feels something shift and crack in his ribcage again, and can’t prevent his face from conveying the hurt he feels at Ryan’s reaction. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but it hadn’t been that. That seemed like Ryan was disgusted. Or appalled. Michael had always thought that Ryan was easy-going and open-minded and had sort of been prepared for Ryan to not reciprocate his unrequited feelings, but hadn’t been ready for Ryan to be so dismissive of his emotions.

Ryan scrapes his chair back and moves to stand up, shaking his head. “No, dude,” he says. “I can’t do this.”

Michael finally relocates his tongue. “Why not?” he asks, unable to keep the desperation out of his voice. There’s this rushing in his ears, and he’s reminded that he once received the advice not to ask a question unless he was sure he wanted to know the answer a few heartbeats too late. Something in his gut knows this won’t end well.

Ryan stands up and leans down to hiss in Michael’s ear, “I have a girlfriend.” He turns away and stalks out of the restaurant, leaving Michael sat in the middle of a party with his jaw on the floor.

*

It scares him more than the rest of the world imagines, but Michael’s started to use the R word publicly. He knows that a lot of people thought he’d call it a day after Beijing, but those people don’t know him. The idea had gone through his head for a few months, but Michael woke up one day and realised he had more to give, knew that he could make himself truly unforgettable. So he carried on.

It’s unfortunate that news of his retirement post-London starts to ripple out just as Ryan’s starting to become an unstoppable force. Michael’s noticed a switch in the other swimmer when he’s seen him at meets. The fundamentals that make Ryan himself haven’t changed – he still does things he shouldn’t, still enjoys himself more than Michael knows how to in or out of the water and still wins. But now he wins more often. And better. And without a full bodysuit.

He’s leaner, more focused and more determined than ever. They still don’t talk about swimming and, in fact, they talk less than they used to. Michael knows he went off the radar for a while, that some people thought he wouldn’t come back onto it, especially after bong-gate. But Ryan didn’t go anywhere – apart from the hospital, to have his knee fixed – and he seems to be coping well with it all.

Despite having freely chosen to continue chasing the black line for another Olympic cycle, Michael’s motivation is waning. He doesn’t admit it to anyone, and certainly not the media, but he’s had a glimpse of life outside of the pool, his friends are starting to do stuff beyond college and endless parties, and Michael’s curious. He’d always thought that his mind was his biggest asset, but these days it’s playing tricks on him.

Fate plays a crueller trick. The last place Michael expects anyone to get to him – especially another swimmer – is at a meet. Meets are his area, where he excels and where nobody doubts him and his ability. But on his way back to the locker room, someone bumps his shoulder and says something about Michael being scared, about him not being able to keep it up, about Ryan being better.

When the words sink in, Michael feels a strong urge to put the guy’s head through the wall – seriously, who has the balls to trash talk Michael Phelps? – and he’s half a second from doing it when another body bustles between them and tells the kid to fuck off and come back when he has fourteen Olympic gold medals.

The guy disappears down the hall and Ryan shepherds Michael into the locker room. When he’s sure that Michael’s not going to run over the guy and finish what Ryan wouldn’t let him start, the Floridian leaves the younger man alone, disappearing out of the locker room.

Ryan’s nowhere to be seen when Michael leaves a short time later, but the more he thinks about what the other swimmer did, the more Michael realises that he owes him something. On his way back to the hotel, Michael stops to get food. He charms Ryan’s room number out of the staff at the front desk and heads to the right room, knocking on the door a little anxiously.

“It’s open!” Ryan calls out. Michael stares at the door for a second, stunned that Ryan can just do that in a strange place when the knock at the door could come from anyone. He hesitates for too long, Ryan’s yelling again, “Don’t make me get up!”

Michael rolls his eyes and pushes the door open, making his way to where Ryan’s sprawled across the bed, engrossed in what appears to be a show about dancing dogs. He finds the energy to lift his head, and scrambles into an upright position when he catches sight of Michael.

“Hey. Uh, what’re you doing here?”

Michael holds up the box he’s carrying. “It’s Friday, right?”

Ryan looks confused. “I think so. Is that a trick question?”

Michael sits down next to him and opens the box. “Nope. Just means it’s pizza night. I owe you, dude.”

Without really realising he’s doing it, Michael holds his breath as Ryan takes this in. For a terrifying moment, he thinks that Ryan might kick him out. Instead, the other man leans over the side of the bed to pick something up.

“Good job I’ve got enough Mountain Dew for two,” he smiles, holding up a large bottle. He flips open the pizza box and grabs a slice. “It’s taken you six years but I knew you’d come around to my way of thinking eventually, MP.”

Michael takes this as Ryan’s acceptance. They spend the rest of the evening sprawled out on the bed, eating pizza, drinking soda and talking about everything but swimming. When Michael has to shuffle himself out from beneath Ryan, whose head has dropped to the younger man’s shoulder as he’s fallen asleep, Mike has to remind himself of Ryan’s reaction two years earlier, rather than allowing a glimmer of hope to spark into life like he wants to.

*

Michael doesn’t know where his teammates are, but also doesn’t care. It was a long day at training camp, so he’s content sitting at the table in the small communal area, eating some contraband junk food and catching up on what the rest of the world is doing via Twitter.

The rare silence is disrupted as he munches on some fries by the door banging open and footsteps approaching. Michael leans over in his seat to glance around the corner and raises his hand in greeting.

“Oh, um, hey,” Ryan stammers, clearly surprised to find anyone in the room. “I, uh, thought everyone was out.” He starts to turn around. “I’ll leave you to it.”

Michael laughs reflexively. “It’s a free country, dude. Come sit, I’ll even share my fries.”

Ryan pauses, contemplating the other man’s offer. “No, I...”

“Please?” Michael changes tack. “I shouldn’t be eating them anyways, you’d be doing me a favour.

Ryan slowly approaches but doesn’t sit down at the table with Michael. He opens the refrigerator instead, pouring himself a glass of juice and twirling it in his hand as he leans restlessly against the counter.

Michael picks up another handful of fries, stuffing them into his mouth. “You ok, man?” he asks, frowning a little.

Ryan nods automatically, then stops himself and shakes his head.

“How about I eat, you talk?” Michael offers.

“I don’t... I mean...” Ryan breaks off before he’s even really started and sighs in frustration. 

“Try the beginning, Ry,” Michael encourages. “What’s on your mind?”

And then it all starts tumbling out. Michael’s pretty sure that the only living thing to ever hear any of this stuff before is Ryan’s dog, and he’s stunned that Ryan is letting go like this. He admits to being afraid, to wanting to live up to the expectations of his family – who, Ryan is at pains to explain, have given up _a lot_ for him – and friends and coaches and country and sponsors and _Jesus fuck_ how the hell did Michael ever cope with this, Ryan is wondering. How he kind of regrets being quite so vocal about this time being his time; how his agent is already ramping up the pressure and he doesn’t know how to fit everything in and he isn’t sure when he’ll make it back into the pool after the Olympics because she’s talking about making the most of how many medals he’ll surely win and how he didn’t think he’d feel this conflicted in the fame versus pool argument ever. And how, ultimately, he’s feeling this really strong urge to just fly to the end of the world and find the first girl who doesn’t know his name and not come back.

Michael blinks as he realises that Ryan’s finally stopped, and is looking at him as if expecting a response. He takes a pull on his drink to buy some time and clears his throat, leaning back in his chair to look up at the other man.

“I, uh,” he begins as eloquently as Ryan had. “You know what I realised? We’ve both achieved – and we’re not even done yet – some serious shit, right? So my new thinking is that if anyone around us is disappointed, or not proud when we succeed, they’re not worth it. Fuck them. Let’s see them do it.”

He pauses to let that sink in before softening his tone but also hammering the point home. “I’ve seen your family, dude. They love you. They’re so proud of you. If you never win another race, they won’t care. They want you to succeed because they know it makes you happy. But they also know it’s not the only thing that makes you happy. You’ve always been good at knowing that, don’t let that slip away now.”

Ryan nods, staring at the glass in his hand. Michael feels that he’s imparted all of the wisdom he can manage at this point – it’s easy to offer advice to kids, but Ryan isn’t one, he’s Michael’s peer and rival and Michael might have more Olympic medals than almost anyone else, but he’s starting to feel a little weird about giving tips to the person who’s normally right there in the next lane, pushing him on.

So he clears away the evidence of his non-regulation dinner and carefully hides it in the trash. As he turns to leave the kitchen, Ryan moves suddenly, reaching out to grab his wrist. Michael looks down as Ryan’s hand slides down to his, squeezing his fingers.

“Thanks,” Ryan says quietly. “I needed that.” He grips Michael’s hand for a moment longer, before dropping it and sliding past the younger man and out of the room.

*

Michael sits in the hotel lobby, one foot resting on the opposite knee, tapping his phone against the arm of the chair. It’s unlike him to be ready first, but he’s felt tense all week and that leads to him being restless, in a hurry.

He checks his watch for the thousandth time and wonders whether he should phone the restaurant to let them know that they’re running late. He decides against it: it’s his birthday, surely his family won’t let him down by getting behind?

The elevator pings and Michael looks up, hoping to see his mom and sisters approaching. They aren’t. But Ryan has appeared and is making his way to the front desk. Michael’s suddenly focused, watching the other man intently. He’s been watching him all week, able to stare openly at his former rival without it looking weird – it’s now his job. More than once during the past few days, Michael has wondered if it’s a little perverse being paid to stare at and then comment on Ryan’s body. But then, his employers and the swimmers and everyone else in the world probably have no idea about the thoughts which are going through his head but, mercifully, haven’t made it out of his mouth.

They’re threatening to now, though, as he observes Ryan leaning over the desk, peering at something on the receptionist’s screen as they talk. Ryan reaches out and points to something, and Michael’s gaze travels down his muscular arm to the tip of his finger, mind rattling through several indecent thoughts as he does so.

Ryan rights himself and Michael’s brought back to earth, overcome with the need to speak to the other man, be in his space. He sits up straighter in his chair, dropping his foot to the floor and clearing his throat as Ryan turns to head back to the elevators.

As Ryan crosses the lobby, Mike raises his hand and calls out using a probably-forgotten nickname, “Hey, Doggy!”

Ryan stops instantly and stares straight at Michael, processing the two words, seeming to make a decision about what to do next. He arranges his face into a warm smile and changes path, walking towards Michael.

“Hi, MP,” he says softly – a little anxiously, Michael thinks, though maybe he’s just tired. “Happy birthday.”

“You remembered?” Michael asks, a little startled. He and Ryan haven’t spoken for a long time – him getting out of the pool seemed to have caused their relationship to lose something.

“Nah. That’s a nice shirt,” Ryan gestures towards Michael, “and you only trim your beard, what, three times a year? And, uh, it’s not Christmas or Thanksgiving so...” He trails off with a smile. “Of course I remembered. Your birthday’s normally during trials, mine’s during the Olympics. Us being the same age for six weeks means you shut up about me being old for a second.”

Michael tries not to blush as he looks up at Ryan’s crinkling smile. There’s a pause as they both seem to figure out what to do next, Michael waiting to let Ryan make the decision of whether to stay or go.

“You waiting for someone?” Ryan breaks the silence.

Michael nods, “A few someones. Supposed to be going out with mom and the girls but... they’re running late.”

“Stood up by your own family? Unlucky, MP,” Ryan grins. He drops into the seat opposite Michael. “So tell me about retirement. What should I know?”

Michael talks, Ryan listens. Neither of them notice the time passing until their conversation is interrupted by Michael’s phone ringing. He answers the call with an apologetic look and is informed that his party are forty-five minutes late for their booking and will they still require their table.

Michael covers the mouthpiece to talk to Ryan. “I have no idea where my family are. Do you want to come out with me or shall I let the table go?”

Ryan glances down at himself. “Uh, much as I’d love to celebrate your special day with dinner for two, MP, I’m not really dressed for anywhere that requires a reservation,” he replies, indicating his basketball shorts, t-shirt and flip flops. “Sorry dude,” he continues, standing up. “I can’t be your date.”

At Ryan’s choice of words, Michael’s heartbeat quickens and he motions for him to stay. “Have you eaten? We could always just get room service?” he tries – and fails miserably – not to sound desperate.

Ryan grins, “I’m a swimmer, MP, I can always eat.” Michael rolls his eyes and returns his attention to the phone call, quickly apologising and letting the table go.

Ryan insists that they go to his room on the basis that it’s Michael’s birthday so he shouldn’t be picking up the tab. Ryan spends a long time ordering far more food than Michael remembers how to consume, and as the older man is on the phone, he finds himself comparing and contrasting their bodies and lifestyles, everything about his former life flooding back having shoved it all in a box when he climbed out of the pool for the last time. He finds himself wondering what Ryan’s plans are after Rio and whether he’d be interested in being friends again.

A controller flies in his direction, almost hitting him in the head and breaks his train of thought. “Yo, earth to Mikey,” Ryan says. “I wanna see if retirement’s made you better or worse at gaming.”

Michael snorts, quickly rising to the challenge. “Better, dude. I don’t spend four hours per day underwater, that’s way more game time.”

“You can’t lie to me, man,” Ryan rolls his eyes. “You front like you spend your life sat on your ass, but I can tell you don’t.”

Ryan flicks through the menus to set up a game and it’s suddenly as if they’ve rewound several years and found them back in another time and place, playing video games and trading friendly insults easily. At some point, Ryan drops from his position seated on the edge of the bed to sprawl across the floor on his back, and Michael’s momentarily distracted by the expanse of toned muscle which appears when Ryan’s shirt rides up as he shuffles to get comfortable. 

The older man catches him looking and Michael tries to style it out, clearing his throat and raising an eyebrow in what he hopes is a judgmental manner. “Comfy, princess?” he asks casually.

Ryan shrugs. “Not really, but it’ll do,” he concedes, grabbing a pillow from the bed, shoving it behind his head and hitting play so fast that he manages to kill Michael’s character instantly.

They’re well into the next game when there’s a knock at the door and Ryan hops up, pausing the game to go and get the food. “I’m watching you, MP,” he warns as he strides away. “Un-pause the game to beat me with my back turned and there will be consequences.”

“It’s my birthday!” Michael whines. “Winning should be a given.”

Ryan wheels the trolley to the end of the bed. “You won dinner on me. Go crazy, MP. If I eat all this by myself, there’s no way I’ll float tomorrow.” He uncovers dish after dish and they settle down to eat, discussing birthday plans – Michael’s predictably heading to Vegas once his commitments with Trials are over, Ryan as usual has to wait until the Olympics are over – families, mutual friends and Rio.

“That reminds me,” Ryan cuts in, finishing off the last of the fries, “I never, uh, thanked you after you saved me from wigging out before London.”

Michael thinks back to the evening in question with a shrug. “I didn’t really do anything, Doggy. I just listened.”

Ryan stares at him open-mouthed for a moment. Michael thinks that the other man might be about to protest, but instead Ryan points to his cheek and says, “You’ve got a little...”

Michael reaches up to wipe his face and Ryan shakes his head in response. “Other side.”

Before Michael can switch sides, Ryan’s leaning in and sweeping whatever’s on his face off with his thumb. And there they suddenly are, up in each other’s space for the first time in a long time and this time there are no cameras and there’s no water and Michael has a split second to make a decision, to seize an opportunity.

Just as he’s about to curl his hand around Ryan’s neck and pull him in, Ryan pushes his face close to Michael’s and takes the lead. And the first thing Michael feels as Ryan’s lips press against his own is relief. That he doesn’t have to worry about Ryan rejecting him, that Ryan wants this. And that this is just as good as he’d hoped it would be, that it feels right, that he wants more.

So he takes it. Michael grabs Ryan’s waist, leans back across the bed and pulls Ryan down with him. He goes a step further and tucks one of his legs over Ryan’s, holding him down as he attacks the older man’s mouth with his own, increasing the intensity of the kiss.

Michael gets lost in it, allowing himself to soak up the smell, feel, taste of Ryan. The older man eventually goes tense against him and tugs his face away, panting slightly. Right, breathing, Michael had forgotten about that.

Once the oxygen returns to his brain, something occurs to him. “Please tell me you didn’t just do that because it’s my birthday,” he begs.

He feels a little annoyed when Ryan collapses laughing onto his chest, though he’ll admit that the rumbles from Ryan’s body rippling through to his own do feel nice.

When Ryan recovers himself enough to speak, he looks up and answers Michael. “No, dude. Can you not tell the difference between a pity kiss and a genuine one?”

Michael’s blush and glance to the side away from Ryan’s gaze answer the question. Ryan reaches up and cups his chin, pulling Michael’s face back to the centre so that he can look at him again. Ryan’s tone softens. “I kissed you because I like you. Because being your friend isn’t enough for me.”

“You want to have sex with me?” Michael asks a little stupidly, a little hopefully. Ryan laughs again but quickly realises that isn’t an appropriate response. Instead, he pushes his hips down against Michael’s, waggling his eyebrows.

“Fuck yes,” he breathes, leaning in and nipping Michael’s neck. He sighs, “But not tonight.”

Michael thumps his head back against the mattress in frustration. “First my family stand me up, then my hot friend kisses me but refuses to have sex with me. What gives?”

Ryan kisses Michael’s jaw and murmurs. “Because I can’t let my mom go to Rio by herself.”

Michael nods his understanding. “But after?”

“I’m all yours,” Ryan grins.

*

The soft knocking at the door wakes Michael up and he reluctantly but quietly gets out of bed to answer it. As he returns to the bedroom, the curtains fluttering in the mid-morning breeze catch his eye and he ducks out onto the balcony to set the food down.

Michael pauses in the doorway when he steps back inside, stopping to take in the person he left asleep in bed. As he watches, his bedmate stirs and rolls onto their back, stretching and yawning before opening their eyes. Michael smiles as he observes, thinking about how lucky he is and that there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

He makes his way back to the bed, stretching out beside his companion, running his hand up the muscular torso slowly.

“Morning,” he murmurs, kissing the naked shoulder conveniently positioned in front of his lips. “Welcome to our honeymoon.”

He watches as his words seep through to Ryan’s consciousness, a grin spreading slowly across his still-groggy features. “Were you watching me?”

Michael nods, nuzzling Ryan’s skin. “Mm-hm.”

“Creep,” he groans, picking up a pillow and swatting Michael with it.

“Dude,” Michael laughs. “That’s no way to treat your husband. Do I need to explain domestic abuse to you?”

Ryan drops the pillow and hauls himself up onto an elbow to survey Michael. “All my favourite words today begin with H,” he decides.

“Wow,” Michael says, considering Ryan’s statement. “You’re excluding ‘breakfast’ and ‘sex’ from your favourites today?”

“I feel like ‘honeymoon’ covers both of those,” Ryan tells him. 

“Okay,” Michael nods in mock-seriousness. “As you wish, husband.”

Ryan grins again. “See, I like that a lot. Even though I married a creep who stares at me.” He leans down and kisses Michael, savouring the moment.

“I couldn’t help it,” Michael protests. Ryan pulls back and looks down at himself with a shrug, as if demonstrating his understanding of his own magnetism. Michael picks up the previously discarded pillow and hits him with it. “I was trying to be romantic.”

Ryan raises an eyebrow, “And how were you going to manage that?”

Michael reaches out and takes Ryan’s hand, spinning the newly-acquired ring on his finger as he does so. “Well, everyone I’ve spoken to recently has told me that our wedding day would be the best day of our lives, but now that I’ve done it, I disagree.”

He looks up at Ryan’s face and can tell he’s about to protest – Ryan and their moms had worked incredibly hard on various things that Michael couldn’t bring himself to give a damn about, like flowers and pocket squares and orders of service – so he rushes on to keep him quiet. “But this right here? This is miles better. Waking up, knowing that I get this every day for the rest of our lives? That’s the best.”

Ryan leans in and kisses him again, murmuring as he does so, “I knew you wouldn’t care about the colour scheme. But you care about me and that’s what counts.”

Michael nods his agreement but holds back when Ryan tries to push the kiss further. He squeezes the older man’s hand and jerks his head towards the balcony. “We’ve got plenty of time for that,” he says, standing up but keeping hold of Ryan’s hand. “It’s still early. Which means I can have breakfast with my husband for the first time.”

He pulls Ryan to his feet and leads him out into the morning sun. Ryan steps onto the balcony behind Michael, looping his arms around the taller man’s waist and nodding his satisfaction. “I could get used to this,” he decides.

Michael smiles. “Good. Because we’ll be doing it every day.”


End file.
